


turn of the 'verse

by celebros



Category: Firefly, Serenity (2005), Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 04:10:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celebros/pseuds/celebros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The face isn't nearly as male, as Klingon, or as pissed off as Kirk had anticipated.”</p>
<p>The crew of <i>Serenity</i> spends a couple weeks aboard the <i>Enterprise</i>. Explosions, sexytimes, Russian ballet, and hilarity ensue.</p>
<p>Written before STID; takes place after STXI and Serenity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The face isn't nearly as male, as Klingon, or as pissed off as Kirk had anticipated. In fact, he's pretty sure the visage of a cheerful nineteen-year-old girl was just about the _last_ thing he expected to find on his viewscreen, especially since it's oh-five-hundred hours and he would still be sleeping if the on-duty comm officer hadn't insisted the situation required a Captain on the bridge. He's half-tempted to walk back to his quarters, throw Spock out of bed, and make him deal with whatever the hell this is.

Instead he says, “This is Captain James T. Kirk, Federation starship _Enterprise_.”

The girl tilts her head to the side. “Precisely,” she says.

He restrains the urge to spin in his chair and strangle the damn ensign twiddling his thumbs at the communications console. Instead, in his best tone of patient diplomacy, he says, “Might I have the pleasure of knowing to whom am I speaking?”

“I'm Captain River Tam of _Serenity_ ,” she responds, and damned if she didn't almost just reach out to shake hands. Kirk's pretty sure that if she had, he'd've reached out his own hand, and the fact that they're actually still several kilometers apart be damned. This bothers him almost as much as the fact that a teenage girl is captaining this utterly unfamiliar ship.

“Are you settlers, Captain?” Jim asks. “There aren't many Terran colonies in this sector – we weren't informed of any civilian cruisers in the region.”

“Explorers,” Tam responds promptly, and then shoots him such a winning smile that Jim is absolutely certain she's lying.

Then there's a voice in the background – deep, male, and almost whiny – and the girl turns from the screen to look behind her. The next look she shoots Kirk is downright sheepish, and she covers the viewscreen with one hand. Her calm voice rises indistinctly for a moment, and then the entire bridge hears, very distinctly, the man's voice rumble, “Little albatross, I thought I told you no more playin' Captain.”

“Practice makes perfect,” the girl's voice responds seriously.

“I ain't keelin' over anytime in the near future, 'less your brother makes some mistake that's of an unforgivable sort, and in any case, you know full well Zo's in line for the ship, and probably Kaylee too, 'fore you'd get your grubbly little fingers –” There's a pause. “Speakin' o' fingers,” the man's voice says, and another hand appears on the screen and peels River's away.

A distinctly sleep-tousled man appears on-screen. He blinks, several times, and then turns to the girl. Before he can say anything, she's wide-eyed and shaking her head.

“Not Alliance,” she says, and smiles at first at him and then at Kirk in what's meant to be a comforting way.

“Excuse me,” Kirk says, and now he's just pissed.

At the same time, the other man says tersely, “Could someone tell me what in the sphincter of hell it is that I've woken up to find on my screen?”

“I was just about to ask the same,” Kirk says, and then adds, “but probably a bit more pompously.”

“You were not invited,” the girl says, pointing at the screen.

“River, get the hell off the bridge,” the man says. She pouts but dances off the screen. The man sits in her chair, scrubs his hands across his face, and then says, “I don't suppose we could just pretend that never happened?”

“Um,” Kirk says. “No, not really.”

“She says you're not Alliance,” he says.

“Introductions again?” Kirk responds. “Captain James T. Kirk, Federation starship _Enterprise_ , like it says on the front. And I believe we are to have it that your _Serenity_ is not, in fact, captained by River Tam?”

“Sure feels like it now and then,” the man says. “I'm Captain. Malcolm Reynolds. I'm not at all familiar with the Federation, and actually, our sensor readings for the past couple days have indicated that wherever the hell we are doesn't actually exist.” He blinks again. “Albatross promised she'd find us help. Don't suppose that'd be you?”

“Not that I know,” Kirk admits. “What kind of help do you need, precisely?”

“Three days ago our sensor readings started going all manner of strange,” Reynolds says. “Eventually our maps and locational coordinates stop workin' altogether, and all of a sudden we're running across moons and planets we ain't never seen or heard of, places that didn't exist before, _dong ma_? Top of that, we were a few hours from Persephone, headed in for work and fuel and a half-dozen other necessaries, when things started goin'. Put it short, we're about four hours from dead in the water.”

His voice is brusque – it's clear he's not going to outright ask for assistance, but Kirk is pretty sure he's telling the truth and he's always been a little over-curious when it comes to folks from alternate universes, so what the hell.

“We'll arrange for docking in Shuttle Bay One,” he says, and closes the comm link as soon as he's gotten Reynolds' short nod. He sits in his chair for a moment, swiveling to one side and then the other in widening arcs, and then shoots Spock a decidedly unapologetic summons. It's clear that this is a job for his goddamn day crew.


	2. Chapter 2

“Anamoly,” the girl announces. She's barefoot, strolling into the cargo bay at the rear of _Serenity's_ small crew, and she's not meeting anyone's eyes, but Jim is certain that she's referring to the half-Vulcan two steps behind him. She makes a face, and then says, “Fascinating,” and he'd be equally certain she was mocking Spock if it weren't for the fact that she has certainly never heard him speak. His first officer takes a step forward; their fingers brush for a split second, and he knows that Spock can feel his unease and tense exhaustion. He inhales, matches Malcolm Reynolds' judicious gaze and extends a hand.

“Captain Reynolds,” he says, “this is Commander Spock, my first officer. My chief of engineering will be joining us shortly to see to your ship's needs.”

“'Preciate it,” Mal says, still a little short, but then River has come up beside him and her gaze passes across his back; he settles slightly, and turns to his crew. “This is Zoe, my second-in-command –” An attractive woman with skin a similar tone to Uhura's acknowledges them with a glare. “Jayne Cobb, public relations,” and Kirk's pretty sure the muscular man's language of relations consists primarily of exchanged phaser fire, or something more primitive. “Kaylee, our engineer,” who's staring solemnly around _Enterprise_ , as if she's never been off _Serenity_ in her life. “Ambassador Inara Serra,” and somehow, from the glare this elegant woman gives Reynolds, Jim's pretty sure that their relationship is probably not dissimilar to his and Uhura's. Although at least Reynolds _does_ know her first name. Lastly, in the background, the solid presence of a dark-haired, well-dressed man. “And Doctor Tam. You've met his sister River.”

“Pilot,” the girl chirrups, slipping in between the shoulders of the command crew to shake Kirk's hand. Her fingers are slim, and her bare feet practically toe-to-toe with his regulation boots. “Gunslinger,” she adds, and anyone in their right mind would cower under the combined force of the looks that Mal and Zoe shoot her, but she just tilts her head to the side, her lips quirking at Kirk in a jaunty grin. Spock stiffens behind him, and he can feel a movement that isn't happening, Spock's wish to set a hand on his back or his shoulder. He almost laughs – is Spock actually afraid of this teenage girl? – but then he rethinks that question, sobered.

It is, he's pretty sure, not logical to be apprehensive over little River Tam, of all the people they've just met – so if his first officer is on the verge of displaying emotion over it, he must be getting some serious negative undertones. He squeezes her hand, his smile sure and confident. Her eyes are very solid on him, and when he breaks her gaze he realizes that as disapproving as Reynolds looks, the man's eyes are on River as if she holds the secrets to the universe.

Later, when the crew of the _Serenity_ have been settled in guest quarters and familiarized with the synthesizers, and when Zoe and Kaylee and Scotty have gone off to find some sort of replacement buffer panel, Kirk tugs the PADD out of Spock's hands and nudges him over with his hip, making room for him to sit on the small sofa. For a moment they sit side by side, silent, Jim bent with his elbows on his knees, tapping his fingernails against his teeth and Spock's eyes sidelong at the discarded PADD.

“What the hell is going on with that girl?” he asks Spock.

“I am uncertain,” Spock says, and then, unhelpfully, “ _Something_.”

“You think she's a threat?”

“At minimum, Jim, I do not believe her assertion that she is a gunslinger was entirely untrue,” Spock says quietly. “I recognize that her physical appearance and demeanor indicate otherwise –”

“All the crazy's a ruse, then?”

“I do not believe that is necessarily the case. Indeed, I believe her to be perfectly genuine with us. At the present all I can advise is that it would be imprudent to irritate her. Or her crew.”

“It's not _her_ crew,” Jim says, half-amused. “Oh, and speaking of physical appearances – the, uh, relations officer.”

“Jayne,” Spock supplies, his face impassive.

“Did you _see_ the looks he was giving you?”

“I was aware of his preoccupation with me, yes,” Spock says calmly. “From the subtle attentions paid to me by all members of the crew of _Serenity_ , I propose that none of them have been in contact with cultures possessing qualities other than standard human appearances. Even Zoe –” and the name is damn awkward in his mouth, “who appeared distinctly unruffled in the face of the surprises encountered today,” namely, the knowledge that there was no past-tense associated with the planet Earth, “blatantly assessed my distinctly Vulcan anatomy repeatedly.”

Jim moves fast, straddling Spock's lap, one knee pressed awkwardly against the arm of the couch, against which Spock had shifted to make room for him. “Can I assess your anatomy?” he deadpans.

“Permission granted,” Spock answers with a quirked eyebrow.


	3. Chapter 3

“There are apples aboard,” River tells Mal. “I heard them. Officers, in the middle of the gangplank, ready to jump off and all for the sake of a sparkling fruit.”

“Ain't we got more to eavesdrop about than _gorram_ apples, River?”

“Mm,” River says, and shrugs. “They're boring. They mostly think like Simon, routines and _gorram_ charts.” Then she grins. “Excepting Commander Spock, whose brain is made all of sand. Fine. Prickly, though.”

“Anything I should be knowin' about?”

“Not to frown over. But there's regiments and regulations all in his head,” River says. “Also sex.”

Mal's shoulders hunch slightly, as if in defeat. River chortles delightedly, and shakes her head. “Not like _that_ ,” she says.

“Thought I'd told you a few times too many to stop having conversations with my brain, albatross,” Mal says.

“Sometimes interesting,” she says lightly. “I would throw punches at the _Kobayashi Maru_. You would fail.” Her eyes light up again. “I'll wear the hats in this 'verse. The braids.” Her fingers stray to her wrists, worrying her sleeves.

“You'd not look half-bad in braids,” Mal says, weaving a few strands of her hair through his fingers. She leans her head into his hand, and he hesitates a moment with his fingers cupping her crown. “Kirk should be here by now,” he mutters, withdrawing back to his chair across the table. “Don't know why you think here's the place to be, girl.”

“Keep you safe,” River says. “But apples are necessary, first.” She clambers to her feet and dances to the door, which slides open expectantly. Kirk nearly runs into her, but she's ducking out of his way before he even realizes. His eyes widen slightly, and Mal can't help but smirk. River's got them baffled, all right.

“Captain Reynolds,” Kirk says smoothly, “I'm afraid we've run into some complications with your ship. It seems your timeline's space travel developed significantly differently from ours. From what Engineer Frye has told us about _Serenity_ 's fuel intake systems, it seems we won't be able to reach a station with the right resources for some time.”

“Define 'some time',” Mal insists, trying not to growl.

“Starfleet Command has us en route to a weeklong diplomatic seminar two days from here. Much of my crew will be taking shore leave in the system while a select team – including any maintenance personnel necessary to complete your repairs – continue business as usual. We've lodged a request to detour to an adequate station after that. Assuming it's granted, you'll be set in two weeks.” Kirk looks strained, as if this speech was a great effort.

“It's longer than we'd hoped,” Mal says, “and I hope you understand we've no way at present of paying for these repairs. It's an unlovely situation all around. But. We're better off this way than if you'd left us dangling in space, so I'm not one to complain about the delay.” And now he empathizes with Kirk's strained look, maybe – it's been a long time since he's had to carry on such polite conversation. He's never been one for formalities. (But that can't possibly be Kirk's problem, he rationalizes. Captain of a ship like this must take only the fanciest-talking mouths in the damn 'verse.)

River saunters back in with an armful of apples. She tosses one to Kirk, who catches it only instinctively, staring at her in astonishment; the second she presses into Mal's hand as if trying to communicate something in their moment of shared contact with the apple. The third she sets on the table in front of the chair on Captain Kirk's right, and the fourth she holds between both hands as she settles in the chair across from Mal. After a moment, she begins to twist at the stem.

Mal has already taken out his knife and is cutting slices from the apple. Kirk is looking at his as if afraid it's been poisoned, and sure enough, after a moment, River says sweetly, “If you need to ascertain the edibility of this apple, we won't be offended,” and Mal mutters, “Speak for yourself,” but really it's the truth. Kirk shrugs and takes an enormous bite, and Mal can't help but wince, thinking too many years back to pressure bombs and ribcages.

“Thanks,” Kirk says awkwardly to River, and she beams at his crooked hesitant smile.

“The grapevine informed me that on informal occasions, you relate stories about the misunderstandings that come from differing species' ideas of what constitutes a ceremony of holy matrimony,” she says earnestly. Kirk's eyes widen again, and he pauses, then chews his gigantic mouthful of apple more enthusiastically.

“River, this ain't exactly –” Mal says warningly, and then what the girl's saying hits him and his curiosity overcomes his common sense. “Huh. You mean to say you've been accidentally married, too?”


	4. Chapter 4

“Aye, but what does it do?”

Scotty's scratching his head, hands propped against _Serenity_ 's still engine, leaning against it and not-quite-scowling at what Kaylee's called a 'port compression coil', a piece that she claims is fully operational even though it doesn't seem to have any purpose at all.

“Well, just about nothin',” she says, unperturbed, although her voice is muffled because she's lying beneath the engine. “Sort of serves as a buffer from everything to everything else, maybe. 'Sides, it don't matter particular what it does long as I know _Serenity_ don't run a thing without it.”

She slides out from under the engine and dabs at the large brown drops of engine fluid on her cheek, although all she succeeds in doing is blotting them from small liquid flecks to coin-sized patches of grime. She stands, but her smile fades slightly and she takes on a bit of confusion when she sees Scotty's consternation.

“It's different from what you're used to, I guess,” she says, looking down.

“Aye, lass, I'd say that again,” he says. “My engine room is likely larger than your wee ship! And I've got a crew of incompetent ensigns at my bidding, too.” Her lips twitch slightly, a glib smile of acknowledgement, and Scotty can feel her ego shrinking into itself. “It's incredible that you and this bitty thing can fly a ship as sure as the bloody Federation flagship.” She looks up again, and this time her smile is genuine, and the question comes from his mouth like it was greased and sent down a vertical chute. “D'ye love her?”

She looks at him in almost-indignation, and he softens and answers for her. “O' course ye do. Cannae imagine there's a soul steps on her decks with a beatin' heart that don't.”

She looks down, flushing now – he's said the right thing. “And you?” she asks hesitantly. “And – and _Enterprise_? Or is it different –” and she starts to speak faster, as if trying to take back the question, “being an assignment, you know, and – and being military, and –”

“She talks to me at night,” Scotty cuts her off, his voice soft and low. “Hums mostly, but sometimes wakes me if she's upset. There's nowhere I can go she's nae tagging along. Corridors and turbolifts and Jeffries tubes and quarters and mess hall she's under my feet and under my fingers, giving me food and breath and bein' all that's twixt me and the black of space. When she hurts, I fix her. I know every bit of her, and I reckon she of me, and I can't imagine either there's a person gets to know a lady like we know ours that don't fall more than a bit in love.” He thinks he's staring off wistfully into empty air, but when he pulls himself back in he realizes it's her he's staring at – Kaylee – and she's looking back. He clears his throat, and then wishes he hadn't because she starts and looks back at the base of the engine.

“ _Xie-xie_ ,” she says, not looking at him. “I know. She is awful beautiful, your ship.”

He chuckles. “Not sure Cap'n Kirk'd like to hear you call 'er mine,” he says. “ _Enterprise_ isn't monogamous, strictly speakin' – and he's just as smitten and possessive as I am.”

“Cap'n too,” she says, and then, embarrassed, “Mine, I mean. That is, Cap'n Reynolds.”

“Aye, lass, I knew what ye meant,” he says, and now she's even more embarrassed. He decides to take a stab, because unlike all the other women he seems to have met, Ms. Frye is cheery as well as bright, and more importantly, understands that the _Enterprise_ will always be his first woman. “Ye know, we've been at work here a few hours now – say we liberate some food and look over these ship's schematics I hear ye mention.”

Her face falls, ruddier than ever, and his heart sinks with it. “Thing is, we're pretty scant for food,” she says, turning away to hide her expression and digging in a little metal cabinet. “We've just got protein compounds – nothin' fit for feedin' guests, Chief Scott –”

“Scotty, please, Miss Kaylee,” he says, understanding, “Your hospitality has been lovely, but I believe if we look much further we'll find ye are in fact a guest aboard the _Enterprise_. Captain Kirk made a point of insisting you help yourself to our synthesizers. And from the sound of things, ye've been far too long without a sandwich. And I can show ye our engine room, if –”

“What's a sandwich?” she asks, brightening as she pulls the schematics from the drawer.

“Oh, poor lass,” he whimpers, and then takes her arm gently. “Come wi' me. Ye've a world of excitement before ye.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sulu brings his latest bruises and medicinal herbs to Sickbay once every two weeks, like clockwork. He hadn't anticipated to be giving combat lessons today, not with all the command staff so busy with their strange visitors, but Kirk had looked like he could use a break from running circles around the little pilot, and one of _Serenity_ 's women had shown up and pronounced the fight much more stimulating than the hubbub she usually witnessed.

He's carrying the aloe-hybrid awkwardly against his belly, since the insides of his arms are too sore for it to be comfortable to rest the pot on them, and as he approaches Sickbay, a man in a crisp vest and a peculiarly ill-matching and informal neckerchief takes a few hurried steps forwards and reaches out his arm. It takes Sulu a moment to realize that the man is planning to hold the door for him, and it isn't until he reaches the entryway and the automatic doors slide smoothly open that the poor fellow's face flushes. He grins sheepishly.

“Still not used to this technology, I guess,” he says, standing there at the doorway as Sulu takes the last few steps. It's clear he's truly embarrassed.

“Thought that counts,” Sulu says, inclining his head as if to say it happens to all of us now and then, even when it really doesn't. The man sweeps in behind him, and McCoy gives a grunt of recognition to each of them, liberating the plant and hurrying it into his office.

“Uh,” the stranger says, turning to him, “I'm Simon. Tam. _Serenity's_ doctor.”

“Hikaru Sulu,” he responds, proffering a hand, and they shake neatly. “I'm the ranking pilot. Good to meet you.” Simon's grip is light but not weak, and he adjusts his neckerchief nervously, glancing towards McCoy's office. Sulu sits on one of the beds and decides not to take his shirt off just yet.

“Here to review the technology?” he suggests conversationally.

“Seems like the thing to do,” Simon says with a shrug. “Everyone having a confab with their counterparts. Uh... River hasn't been bothering you, has she?”

“Hmm?”

“My sister's our pilot, I thought she might have been... but I guess she's been keeping Mal company.” Startlement dashes across his figures, and he corrects hastily, “Captain Reynolds,” looking so abashed it's nearly comical. “Are you...” He looks towards the office. “Doctor McCoy doesn't seem to be in much of a hurry coming back out here. Are you here for medical attention, or just...?”

“Routine stuff,” Sulu says with what he hopes is a rueful grin. “I do hand-to-hand lessons, various combat practices with the crew. I enjoy it, but once I cracked a couple ribs and it took me a bit too long to figure it out. Ever since then McCoy has me come in every other week to make sure I'm all in one piece.” He rolls his eyes, but Simon is nodding.

“If only my crew was as thoughtful with their recreational incidents of bodily harm,” Simon answers with sardonic wistfulness, and Sulu laughs.

“It's mostly just me who listens, actually,” he admits, now a little sheepish himself, as if he shouldn't be quite so obedient. Truth is, he doesn't mind Sickbay the way the rest of the bridge crew seem to – maybe because he's very rarely hurt badly enough to have to stay more than an hour or two. He visits sometimes unscheduled – at first always under the guise of making sure McCoy is making good use of his plants, and later for tea (or whiskey) and light conversation. Every time he's seen Kirk enter the Sickbay of his own free will, it's either been with a jovial intent to irritate his CMO, or shrouded in a sort of funereal gloom, his inexplicably boundless energy muted.

Simon grins anyway, and then after a lingering moment eye contact, looks back towards McCoy's office again. “So I was wondering,” he says, and then his voice lowers to a hush, “is he always... quite so...?”

“He's an old grump, if that's what you mean,” Sulu says, not bothering to modulate his volume, and it's quite funny to see the young doctor's wince, particularly in harmony with the scowl on McCoy's face as he emerges from his office. He meets McCoy's eyes over Simon's shoulder and announces cheerfully, “His bedside manner's crap.”

“Only for idiots who waste my time by intentionally getting beaten up on a regular basis,” McCoy growls, and Simon almost _jumps_ back, poor boy.

“To be fair, I'm doing most of the beating-up,” Sulu corrects. “And when I'm not, it's really not intentional. The Captain just gets in a lucky blow now and then. As captains are wont to do.” And this time Simon practically chokes on a snort of laughter, trying to disguise it by looking away at the machinery, far too close to be actually examining it.

“So, Doctor Tam,” McCoy says, whapping Sulu's arm rather harder than necessary to get his attention, tugging at his sleeve with a raised eyebrow, “would you care to brag up your ship's medical superiority?”

“Not particularly,” Simon says. “I'd be more keen on finding out what I can do to get access to medical research on brain damage. More specifically, ameliorations of the amygdala.” He turns away from the blinking console, his expression twitching a little as Sulu strips off his black undertunic and grimaces at the dark blossoms of bruises on his upper arms and a particularly large blotch across the right side of his abdomen.

“From what I hear, I should be assuming you're talking about the human amygdala?” McCoy says, still grumbling but with a new hint of professionalism. Simon's eyes widen slightly. “Can't imagine _why_ , it's not nearly as interesting as... not that there's an awful lot of research on Vulcans in any case, especially not anymore, but their overdeveloped emotional control centers certainly make for an interesting –”

“I'm not sure he even knows what a Vulcan _is_ , Doc,” Sulu says, amused, poking at the bruise on his side. McCoy slaps his hand away.

Simon is trying so, so hard not to gape. “My crewmates – well, you're right, we'd never encountered – but my sister used the term to refer to Commander Spock...?”

“Spock's only half-Vulcan,” Sulu says helpfully.

“I was thinking human research, but I'd certainly be open to –”

“My God, man, did you let Jim crush _every_ minor blood vessel in your oblique region?” McCoy interrupts with a growl, slapping Sulu's hands away from his side again and running his fingers experimentally over the bruise, which is roughly the size and color of an overripe eggplant. “Were you using foils or baseball bats?”

“He did seem a little stressed,” Sulu admits, and then looks at Simon apologetically. “Sorry, you were saying?”

“What is that?” Simon asks, taking a hesitantly awed step forwards as he watches the large bruise fade as the faint light sweeps back and forth across it.

“Vascular regenerator,” McCoy says. “Don't tell me you don't have one?”

Simon gapes openly for a second, and then stutters a little before shaking his head. “There were experimental designs, when I worked on Osiris, but even when we dealt with Alliance healers after Miranda, their best technologies still took at least...at least half a day to do the sort of deep tissue repair...” He blinks. “Is that _portable_?”

“The kind of portable that's worth ten cases of Kentucky's best bourbon,” McCoy says, his eyebrows quirked.

“Pretty much no,” Sulu interprets, unable to quite maintain his grin through the tingling discomfort of regeneration pressing against his ribs.

“I'd ask for schematics, but from the updates I've gotten, it sounds like your technology is pretty incompatible with ours,” Simon says, leaning back against the extra bed.

“Scarring I saw on your Captain says you still use Goddamn twentieth-century medicine. _Stitches_ ,” McCoy practically spits.

“But we've got digital imaging technology you'd never believe,” Simon says. “I got a high-tech neural imager about six months back...”

Sulu phases out, amusing himself by looking back and forth between the matching intense expressions of the dark-haired doctors. When McCoy has finished patching him up, the man shifts to Sulu's other side so that he's standing across from Simon, next to Sulu leaning up against the exam table, Sulu's undertunic beneath McCoy's palm, resting heavily back against the bed.

(Doesn't matter anyway, since Sulu's not entirely opposed to taking advantage of the excuse to hang around these particular men in his shirtless-and-muscular state.)


	6. Chapter 6

The girl had greeted him as if he was an old friend, except with a cheery, “Cupcake!” and he'd stalked off without even thinking about it. It wasn't the first time a complete stranger had called him by the five-years-past mock-name, but this time he couldn't even curse at her in Chinese. (When he'd decided to drop his Vulcan elective two weeks after the bar incident, Uhura had taken pity on him – agreed to talk to him again and advised him that Mandarin had the best profanity.)

Gerry's not sure he likes where this has led him: _Serenity_ 's an unattractive piece of shit, and even more so with the trouble her crew's caused him already. He doesn't appreciate his long-awaited shore leave being chopped unceremoniously in half, or that his Chief Engineer has been spending all his time pointlessly feeding his life-force into the shallow tray of _luh-suh_ calling itself an extinct insect, instead of the ship he claims to love like a wife.

Hails to Scotty have yielded zilch, and he knows the man in technically off-duty, but the lord of the distillery has long since evolved the ability to sleep whilst bartending and listening to disgruntled crew bitch, so dammit, he's gonna find Scott even if it means misusing his security clearance to board the damned bane of his existence.

He tries not to make noise, but the floors are this metal mesh shit, and he's wearing heavy regulation boots. Everything echoes until he gets abovedecks, at which point he follows a chain of tiny decorative lights, the sound of low voices, and the clanking of tools into the oddly homey engine room.

The young female engineer sees him and starts, nearly choking on her drink. “Scotty,” she says when she's swallowed. There's a prodigious _thunk_ from the back, and an, “Och,” at which Gerry and the engineer roll their eyes in unison.

“Wha's up, Kaylee?” Scotty's disembodied voice asks.

“Lieutenant Martin from Security for you, sir,” he responds.

“Ah, Gerry lad,” Scotty says, emerging from behind the engine. “What's news?”

“I'm in need of some supplies, Chief,” Gerry says stoically.

“Of the brewish sort?” he asks, and Gerry can't help but wince. “No worries, mate – Kaylee here's got an engine distillery of her verrah own.”

“Oh,” he says, and spends a moment deciding not to throw a temper tantrum. Kaylee raises a shoddy metal cup sloshing with amber liquid and it's then that he realizes they're both a little cross-eyed. Kaylee takes a half-step back, drops into her _buggering rainbow hammock_ , and fishes out another shrapnel-scrap mug that looks as if it'd as soon cut his lips to ribbons as hold drinkable liquid. Scotty grabs the cup and disappears again, reemerging with two newly filled and handing one to Gerry.

“Have a sit,” Scotty says, throwing himself down next to Kaylee in the hammock and jostling her so that her liquor splashes onto her face. She snorts and swats him. Gerry settles gingerly onto a wooden crate, which appears to have been lifted straight from a twentieth-century barn.

“We was just sayin' how funny Vulcans are,” Kaylee announces. “My verse the closest we get to aliens is Reavers, and they were th' 'lliance's fault for being a _go tsao de hwun dan_.” She wrinkles her nose. “I really can't help none I swear in Chinese, you know,” she informs Scotty, who waves a floppily dismissive hand as Gerry finds himself nodding sagely. Their eyes go to him, and he shifts, self-conscious.

“It's a _yu bun duh hwun chiou_ that can't swear in Chinese,” he says gruffly, taking a large swig of swill, which burns in a way he might've labelled unpleasant if he weren't trying to get drunk. Kaylee laughs delightedly and claps a couple times.

“See, even Lieutenant Martin does,” she says. “You're just bung ignorant, Mister Scott, that's all. Chinese's got the colorfullest cusses...”

“Call me Gerry,” he says, still gruff because he doesn't want to like her.

“Gerry, help me teach Scotty how 's done,” she says. “Give us one o' yer cussin's, we'll fix it up.”

“Ah,” Scotty says, leaning way back and nearly flipping the hammock. Then he springs to his feet, fiercely proffering his cup in one hand, the other a wagging finger in an invisible ensign's face. “Lipkin! The fuck ye do to th' converters, lad? We've leaks in three of the Jeffries 'n yer reclinin' on yer barmy arse f'r the last time! If ye were a lad o' mine I'd have yer hide nine ways from ever-livin' Sunday an' make ye mewl like a kitten new-slid from its bitchy ma'am!” He pauses a moment, still contorted in energetic rage.

There's a silence, and then Kaylee begins to giggle. Gerry isn't drunk yet but particularly knowing Ensign Lipkin, it's impossible to stifle his laughter – and, if he's honest with himself, downright _illogical_ too.

“That's a piece of art,” Gerry says to Kaylee, who is still snorting with laughter, sighing and wiping her eyes. “I'm not sure we can cut that apart.”

“He'll pick up on it,” Kaylee agrees, patting Scotty's knee affectionately. He looks inordinately proud.

“So far all's I've got is _gorramit_ and _go-se_ ,” he admits, abashed.

“Gorramit's not Chinese,” Gerry says.

“Just slang,” Kaylee confirms.

“I should make Nyota teach me more languages,” Scotty says ruefully. “Once I started goin' on away missions she taught me the necessaries – _lower yer weapons_ an' _release the cap'n_ an' _'scuse me_ in abou' fifteen alien languages, but other'n that an' the Gaelic I learnt when I was young I'm hardly...” He trails off and frowns into his cup. “You empty, Gerry?”

He is.

“Cap'll be pissy, we drink it all,” Kaylee calls as Scotty disappears for refills. “'n River too, though nobody knows _that_ but me... but I promise, a pissy River is a thing no-one's keen t'see.”

“River, she's the pilot?” Gerry asks, grabbing his cup from Scotty and gulping half of it.

“Yep, past two years,” Kaylee says.

“She's a little 'un,” Scotty says, missing the hammock and sitting hard at Kaylee's feet. “Can' see 'er drinkin'...”

“Nineteen,” Kaylee says.

“Och, Chekov's age, then. I s'pose,” Scotty concedes.

“She's a little strange,” Gerry says, which is as close to tactful as he can get; it's an accomplishment not to use Chinese to express just what he thinks of the girl.

“River? Crazy as anythin' in the verse,” Kaylee says cheerfully. “But _jen duh sh tyen tsai_ – smarter'n anyone you ever met. An' she might look like a little thing, but she'll knock anyone flat on 'is back he look at Cap or Simon funny.”

“Och, Mr. Spock'd give 'er a run for 'er money,” Scotty says, leaning his head against Kaylee's leg. “Chekov too maybe, for the genius-ness. Smarts're one thing, but in th' realm of theoretical physics...”

“She'd destroy any man walkin',” Kaylee says stoutly.

“Tha's yer leg,” Scotty observes suddenly of the solid thing against which he's resting his head. He leans away, grinning but embarrassed. “Sorry, lass.”

“Nonsense,” Kaylee says briskly, wrapping an arm around his neck and tugging him back to lean on her. Gerry grins; Scotty winks and closes his eyes. For a long while they just sit and drink together; Gerry's the one to get refills next, although it takes him a while to find the still in the back of the engine.

“'s it Delta yet?” Scotty asks into the companionable silence.

“'s 2100 hours,” Gerry says. “You on shift?”

“Cap'n Kirk told me write my own hours 'til _S'renity_ 's patched,” Scotty mumbles.

“He's a nice man, your Cap,” Kaylee says blurrily.

“Kaylee!” a voice barks from the hallway; Scotty starts awake and sits upright.

“Jayne,” Kaylee calls back, bored, “I thought Cap told you'n'Zo –”

“Mal and River're back from their daily dose of fun,” Jayne says, stomping into the doorway. “You know their fancy synthers won't gimme a drink?” He looks around, his lip curling. “You havin' a gorram tea party or getting' us fixed and off this piece of unnatural _fei-oo_?”

“Think you're lucky Scotty doesn't speak Chinese,” Gerry mutters, although Scotty's already letting Kaylee coax him back to rest against her thigh, supremely unconcerned.

“Don' remember askin' you,” Jayne says.

“Want a cup?” Kaylee asks, unperturbed. She tosses Jayne the last metal mug, which he catches easily.

“'s what I came for,” Jayne grumbles, shouldering in towards the still. “you gonna make me sit on my _pee-gu_ or find me a gorram chair?”

“I brought the drinks,” Kaylee says. “Someone else's in charge o' chairs.”

“Fine,” Jayne says, setting his cup by the engine with a suspicious glare at Gerry. He stomps back out.

“Grab one for Gerry!” Kaylee shouts.

“He can grab one for hisself!” Jayne shouts back. Gerry lumbers to his feet, setting the again-empty shrapnel-cup on the crate and following Jayne's hulking shape down the hall.

“You one of the fancy engineerers?” Jayne asks, not looking at him.

“Security,” Gerry answers. Jayne laughs.

When they've grabbed a pair of _scrubbed wooden chairs_ (this ship is just _too_ cozy), they trudge back silently towards the engine room. Gerry's rolling his eyes by the time he realizes what he's hearing; Jayne grabs his arm and anchors him back as if there's imminent danger. He is extremely strong.

“They're snogging,” Gerry says quietly, patiently.

“Kaylee ain't snogged no one since she stopped ruttin' with the doc,” Jayne whispers back roughly, defensively. He sets his chair down and sits in it firmly, not letting go of Gerry's arm. He reluctantly follows suit, right next to the man.

“My drink's in there,” he says after a moment.

“Mine too,” Jayne says.


	7. Chapter 7

He's not entirely sure if he's just pretending to be sleepy for the sake of pressing his cheek against her leg, or if he's actually had enough to drink that he's dozy. At least, not 'til Kaylee shakes his shoulder and she's talking to him in a gentle whisper, the words thinning like fog and wrapping around him. She's articulate but he doesn't know what she's saying; her fingers work at his shoulders and he's not sure if the moan he hears in his head actually came from his mouth or not.

“Scotty, come on,” she whispers, and he finally understands the words, except he doesn't know what she's asking him to do.

“Sorry, lass,” he answers just as quietly, wondering why are they whispering, is someone sleeping?

She laughs and cups a hand underneath his elbow, lifting, and oh, she's asking him to sit in the hammock with her again. He can do that. He lets her take his hands and lift him, although it's a strange angle, and the lights are dim and everything is a little blurry but she's smiling at him, that much is clear.

“Och, sorry,” he mumbles again, and he's pressing the crown of his head into the curve of her neck before he remembers he hasn't asked any permissions. But her hand comes up and around his shoulders, her fingers loosely stroking the other side of his neck and cheek, and he could close his eyes but then he'd be asleep again and that is certainly not what he wants. She laughs again, softly, and he wonders if he said something out loud.

“You're so sleepy,” she says, the laughter still dancing in her voice, and he lifts his head to meet her eyes and see if they're dancing too. They're serious and affectionate and his lips are smiling without him having to tell them to, which is probably good. “Come here,” she says, pulling her legs up and twisting so that now she's stretched out in the hammock, up on her elbows, and he's still sitting there dumb with his feet dangling over the edge but leaning into her. She's pulling gently, and finally he realizes that he's to mirror her movement; he wonders if he should take off his shoes but doesn't. He lifts himself fully into the hammock, which is really too small for two people, and the fabric is taut, pushing their bodies together. He's twisted, half on his side and half on his back, her knees nestled behind his but his torso twisting so he can see her above him.

Sometime in the last couple of hours she's wiped her face; there are still dark spots of grease near her hairline and at the back of her jaw near her ears, but there's no sign of the spilled drink; she's shining faintly in the twinkling Christmas lights. Her hair is waving loose, curving at her chin, and he shifts to free his hand from the hammock pinning it, brushing some of the hair back from her eyes.

“It's a squeeze,” he says quietly. “Ye don' mind?” Her eyes crinkle and she lowers herself to nestle beside him. They fit together like parts in her ship's beautiful old engine, intimate pieces of metal that have worn away to fit one another – as if this niche they've settled into in the last two days was carved out for them long before they met. He tilts his head, twists so that they're facing, brings his hand to her hip and pulls her up the last couple of inches so that they're even. He wants to do this right, because usually when he gets an opportunity to ruin something it's _Enterprise_ and he knows he can fix anything, but this is something he'd have no idea how to fix, so it's a lot harder to jump.

“Scotty,” Kaylee says softly, and meets his eyes from two inches away, “you don't kiss me pretty soon, we –”

He lifts his other hand to cup the back of her head, but he doesn't have to pull her forwards, she's already there, and he tucks his head to press his lips against hers. There's not a trace of sleep left in his body, but he feels slow, languorous, as if he has all the time in the world and will never need to breathe again. Kaylee's fingers dig through his hair and into his scalp, and she makes a sound against his mouth. It's a sound he's thinking too, and it's strange, because as he's kissing her it's occurring to him that they might be the same person, just different permutations in different universes, and she doesn't have sandwiches and he doesn't know Chinese, but as he's skating his fingers across her hip, thumb pressing against the bone through layers of clothing, and she's rubbing her thumbs across his cheekbones as if shining an apple, none of that seems to matter so much.

He shifts, and her lips part wider. She shivers and curls even closer to him, which he would've said was impossible. She kisses unsubtly – which he appreciates, and does his best to reciprocate – and right now there's something playful about the way her tongue is slipping into his mouth. She's definitely smiling. He plays along for a while, and then she lets him move. He drags a kiss across the line of her jaw, brushes his fingers lightly up her hairline where the smudges of oil darken her flushed skin, and sucks gently at her earlobe before giving it a nip, which is usually a pretty safe bet.

Sure enough, her fingers tighten in his hair, and she gasps a little; he exhales sharply against her neck and kisses his way down to her throat. She shucks her jacket quickly, and their fingers fumble together with the first two buttons of her blouse. Scotty presses his lips reverently against the notch between her collarbones. He lifts his hands to cup under her arms, and then runs them down her sides back to her hips so that the pads of his thumbs just barely pass over her breasts.

And it's suddenly not playful anymore; she shifts them so that she's halfway on top of him, and there's a distinct aggression in the way she lowers her mouth to his, raking her fingers across his chest and pressing her hips down against him possessively. She's breathing harder now, and Scotty lifts his head from the hammock to meet her, and then suddenly she breaks away from him starts up, her eyes wide, and claps a hand to her mouth.

“ _Tyen shiao duh, jen dao mei_ ,” she curses, and then starts to _giggle_ , of all things, “Where did Jayne and Gerry –?”

“I thought they left!” Scotty exclaims, trying to sit up, but the hammock is rocking as they both fumble to move. She shakes her head, pointing at the abandoned cups by the engine and the crate, Jayne's still full to the brim. She grabs his arm to steady them, her eyes still large in horrified realization, and no, there's no point in being embarrassed, especially not when she's in the same state – he laughs too. They stumble from the hammock together and Kaylee's clasping his hand tight; they creep to the door and look out.

The hall is pretty dark, but not fifteen feet from the door are a pair of chairs practically hugging each other, they're so close together. Jayne is sitting in one, his arms crossed, and although they can't see his expression it's clear he's looking straight at them. Gerry's head is resting heavily on his shoulder, the lieutenant's mouth wide-open in sleep.

“Better've been worth it,” Jayne grumbles, lurching to his feet and moving towards them; Gerry falls against the vacated chair and smacks his head thoroughly before he's awake enough to stop himself. Jayne shoulders past, grabs his cup from its resting place beside the engine, and looks Kaylee and Scotty thoroughly up and down with a smirk before trudging back out.

“You be in your bunk?” Kaylee calls after him teasingly, but he just grunts as he brushes past Gerry, who's clutching his head and still blinking off sleep. She looks at Scotty appraisingly, wraps an arm around his waist, and gives him a look that says, very clearly, that they have unfinished business.

Translations from the last seven chapters:

(taken from the Firefly published scripts and cobbled together as best I can; feel free to correct if I've messed any up)

 _dong ma?_ – Understand?  
 _Xie-xie_ – thank you  
 _luh-suh_ \- garbage  
 _go tsao de hwun dan_ \- dog-humping bastard  
 _yu bun duh hwun chiou_ \- stupid fink  
 _jen duh sh tyen tsai_ – an absolute genius  
 _pee-gu_ \- ass  
 _Tyen shiao duh jen dao mei_ \- In the name of all that's sacred, just our luck  



	8. Chapter 8

Pavel isn’t used to the shuffled schedule that means he and Hikaru don’t leave the bridge together. He’s been acutely aware of it today – Sulu and the Captain have been working Beta, and he and Uhura are stuck with Delta. Spock has been making his own hours, which lately seems to mean he works whenever the Captain does, sleeps when Kirk sleeps, and drops in and out of the other two shifts.

Uhura seems restless. She told Pavel earlier that she’s been spending off-hours with _Serenity_ ’s first mate Zoe, who scares him a little – exchanging cultural information, which he supposes makes sense.

It’s not quite fair, he can’t help but think – all his friends are changing their shore leave plans to spend time with the _Serenity_ crew, but aside from awkward introductions to Simon Tam and Captain Reynolds in the hallways, he hasn’t gotten to know any of them. What had meant to be a vibrant tour of Aelylys’s northern continent is suddenly a solitary week between the ship’s skeleton crew and the Alylysian mountain capitol.

They’re docking on the planet in half an hour, but Pavel slips into the lift alone as soon as his replacement arrives, not sure he can stand listening to Uhura talk in low excitement about the hybridization of languages and currencies and what survived the diaspora that never happened in this timeline.

He makes his way to the rec center, dark and empty at this hour. Sulu loves to fence and fight with crowds cheering him on, but Pavel’s always preferred this thick, beautiful silence, which makes his body a stark contrast against the sleeping world.

He palms open his locker and shucks his uniform, sliding on black leggings and a fitted blue sleeveless shirt. He’s always thought he looks better in blue than command gold, but it’s the meaning that matters. Now, when he’s alone, he can make his own meaning.

There’s a mirrored room, which Sulu has sometimes laughed about. It’s all dark, and there are mats silhouetted in the corner. He presses his bare feet against a stretch of mirror and folds himself down across his legs, folding his fingers over his toes and pressing his nose towards his thighs. Today it doesn’t quite reach.

He holds there, trembling, for a count of sixty. He’s thinking the numbers in Russian no matter how hard he tries to make it English, and in the meantime mentally slapping himself for feeling like a victim – if he’d wanted to make friends he should’ve been out there – he should be there right now, planning for drinks with Hikaru and his friend Simon, talking culture with Nyota and Zoe – doing _something_ –

He lets himself fall back flat, breathing harder than he should be. The floor is pleasantly cool, and he flexes his toes, arches slightly to stretch his back, rolls his shoulders, and then stands. He feels taller and straighter and emptier, and then in the silence there is the unmistakable sound of a whisper.

The tension is back in his muscles in an instant, and he says, “Computer, lights,” too sharply. The fluorescence hurts his eyes, and he looks around wildly, flushed. Two years and no one has ever found out, thank the _stars_ he hadn’t started –

And there she is behind the mats in the corner, her hands open, palms facing her – the girl, who no one seems to have seen outside her captain’s company. It’s like some colossal joke, his wishes twisted to humiliate him. She’s looking at him as if he’s a freak show, halfway between pity and amusement, and maybe some nervousness.

She’s graceful as she stands, and he knows he’s stiff and red-faced, but this is _his_ space.

“Of all ze places on a ship zis size to be –” he says, indignant, but she cuts him off.

“This was the only one with nobody shouting,” she says. The amusement has faded, and she’s looking at him with shyness, apology. “ _Du bu qi, wo bu xi huan_ – I – I didn’t know.”

And now he’s even darker with embarrassment. Of course she wasn’t waiting in a dark, quiet studio to humiliate him. His brain fumbles through apologetic Russian phrases, but before he makes his way to English she’s clasping his hand, pressing her cool palm into his and folding one finger at a time down over his. He responds reflexively, closing his hand around hers.

“Didn’t know,” she says again, but now smiling. “You become the dark also.” She closes her eyes, inhales. “And with numbers, stretching out and curving like fluted pieces of bamboo. Or tangled light.”

“I don’t understand,” he says, nervous.

“I’d be concerned if you did,” she answers seriously. “I speak in algorithms, amalgamated sounds. _And_ I’m from an entirely different universe.” She smiles again, incandescent. “We dance now.”

He flushes again. “I’m sorry? I – I don’t –”

“Soubresaut!” she says, eyes wide. “Fouetté en dedans! And we can be _sur le cou-de-pied_ the right way; we’ll be the only ones in _centuries,_ I expect.” She says this with an air of companionability, lowering her voice to a long-suffering tone and leaning in towards him slightly. He can only gape at her. She frowns slightly.

“You know Russian ballet,” she says, a statement of fact.

“Yes,” he says. “How – how did you know this?”

“I could see it in your feet,” she says, and frowns more deeply, as if this should be obvious. “Could see what they wanted, what they –”

A last word is drowned out by Captain Kirk’s voice cracking the quiet from the shipwide speakers. “This is the captain speaking. Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve arrived at Aelylys and are ready to begin beam-down of the diplomatic team. Those heading to shore leave on the continent should be prepared for beam-down in shifts beginning at 0830. Those staying shipside, please double-check your shift schedules for today – we shuffled around a little to accommodate the visiting Aelylysian diplomats.” There’s a pause, and then he adds amusedly, “Let’s try to keep this leave clean and safe, all right?” almost as if he’s not almost always the one who ends up in trouble.

A slight click marks the end of the communiqué, and when Pavel looks back at the girl her face is lifted, eyes closed and palms open at her sides.

“It’ll be quiet in a moment,” she says reverently. “You’ll be a navigator, and show me the places, and we’ll dance through the ship like blessed things, all out in the black, with far too little luminosity to be called stars but far too much to be called stones.”

He still doesn’t understand, not entirely. But there’s a sense he gets when Kirk is giving orders or laying plans, a feeling that yes, things will happen as he says. Often they don’t, but the universe always seems to bend to make things right anyway, so the feeling hasn’t faded. And this time, the girl’s words are the same – pressing absolutes that the universe will work for.


	9. Chapter 9

They’re orbiting the planet at velocities and altitudes that River hasn’t calculated yet. The dimensions are important, and distance in regular units from here to Simon’s location on the surface (marked by a treasure-“x” on a mapscreen that Pavel Andreivich shows her, overlapping with three treasure-“x” marks which mean Jim Mal and Pilot) – also important. But more important are the minds around her, which is what Mal said a few minutes before his molecules dissolved and reformed just the same unmeasured-distance away (with Simon, on the planet, marked by a treasure-“x”).

River has listened to the rumblings of familiar souls. Kaylee’s brain right now is vicious with legs and pulled hair and mouths many places, cogs fitting together like engine pieces only this is the kind of fitting-together that River is supposed to butt out and not overhear. It’s hard to turn off. Inara sees her coming and it’s _run-tse duh fwotzoo couldn’t I please speak to someone sane?_ and then _I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ and River nods and goes the other way.

Zoe is hard to find. She’s like the rest of them today. She’s like charts, but smoother.  
This is not what Mal meant.

She wants into Mal’s thoughts, wants to hear him say, _albatross_ , have a name for her, a name he thinks in all sorts of moods and at the quietest moments sometimes, her name echoing through the ship when it’s latelate and he’s the captain on the bridge wishing for someone to talk to. Recently he’s learned that if he thinks a wish for her to come he’s got to follow it up with, _Man doesn’t know what he wishes for half the time, girl, you best be asleep_ , unless he really does want her there.

She stops and listens for someone to call her. Pavel Andreivich has thought of her several times in the last hours, the faint stumble of his voice tripping through her mind, remembered images of her morning dance in the empty belly of Engineering, the way she had swayed in the turbolift, the way she had danced in the echoing mess hall with an apple in each hand, all underlined with Russian words for _beautiful_. That has always been a word for crew, for family, strange in the mouthed minds of nineteen-year-olds from other universes. But Pavel is on shift and not allowed to dance right now and his thoughts are fluttery within her, but unhelpful.

She passes by Commander Spock’s quarters deliberately, because he has allowed himself to think about her many times over the last week _anomaly, fascinating_ and she could tease him and look at his deliberations and see if he would dare to brush fingers with her, dare to take her secrets (he would think against her will, though he doesn’t know what she wills) the way she has his and him never knowing. But Spock’s mind is all quiet, filled with a purring graciousness that drinks like water.

She leans against the wall of the hallway and says her _yu bun duh tzao gao_ and begins to feel prickles and tension in her deltoids and trapezius which means oh sit down River shhh shhh and she thinks _Simon should be here, or Kaylee, oh_ go-se.

Her mind has folded in on itself like dough like Shepherd Book showed her how to knead, turning over and over and pressing everything inwards, but sharp little rays escape and she gets empty empty empty hallway until there’s that familiar mind, the purr opening and becoming louder and then saying something that should be her name.

“Miss Tam,” the cool voice is saying, but she can feel what’s underneath, which is fear and alarm and some distaste, and from inside his mind she can see that she’s curled up in a ball against the wall moaning.

She stops. She can feel that her blood wants to press into the vessels in her face, but she doesn’t let it. She is embarrassed. This doesn’t happen anymore – only when she doesn’t have a mission, and _Serenity_ has been her mission for so long now that it hasn’t mattered. She looks at Commander Spock and in his mind he recoils from her sudden calm and thinks in an echo, _What is she?_

“Commander,” she says, and her voice does not quake.

“Miss Tam, may I escort you to sickbay?” and he’s thinking all in overlapping colors, _I must tell Jim; communications in fifty-three minutes; that is time for Doctor McCoy to ascertain if she is a danger; can we sedate her?_

She stands in a fluid movement and blinks through her lashes at him and wonders if Pavel Andreivich would still dance with her if he knew about the things that were wrong with her brain. She needs the answer to be yes.

“Should I have your brother brought up?” Spock asks, and he is _afraid_ which feels like muscles and worms inside of her throat.

“That shouldn’t be necessary,” she says, and smiles at him, but in his head he flinches at the smile and she doesn’t know what she’s doing wrong. She lets the smile fade and bites her lower lip. “Doctor McCoy won’t be of any use to me, but _dahng ran_ I’ll follow your feet to sickbay, if you will…” She trails off. Is this how girls talk, how people talk? She doesn’t think so. Spock has translated the Mandarin and is wondering if talk like this is common in her ‘verse, so she is safe in foreignness. He nods once and thinks of laying a hand on her elbow or shoulder, but she steps heavily aside and gestures for him to go ahead before he can decide to make contact.

The ship’s walls, as she’d told Simon earlier, are made of cartilage and glass. He’d been worried when she’d said that, said, “River,” in the voice that wavered between the syllables and pressed hungrily with unhappy concern. What she means, she’d tried to tell him, is that it’s part alive but not made of bones, and that it’s parts complementing each other so there’s beauty without breakage. It’s like no ship she’s been on before. (River loves Serenity and loves her fierce; Serenity hides her like no place can. But uniqueness is a quality she’ll recognize. Isn’t quantitative. Can’t say no to it, push it away if it’s right there.)

She’s letting her fingers trail along the walls, tapping them to a rhythm. Spock is on her left side and raises his eyebrow at her, which she knows without looking. “Quartet for the End of Time,” he says coolly. “20th-Century French. A curious selection.”

“Messiaen loved birds,” River says in answer, and looks at her fingers. “But I’m only touching the string parts. Can’t make the rest come from the walls.”

Spock speaks barely thinking. “I admit I am finding difficulty following your pattern of thought,” he said.

“You oughtn’t be following without having asked,” she says, all instinct and no intention. “Isn’t polite. And you could have just asked for directions instead. But all right.”

“You seem to know the way to sickbay without taking my lead,” he comments, because she isn’t following his footsteps but following the way they look in his brain. She purses her lips.

“I do take your lead,” she says truthfully. “I just see it before most people would. Your hips and toes look in certain directions long before you turn, you know.”

He thinks about leading her in the wrong direction to see if she would know the difference, then quickly erases the thought from his mind. They move into the turbolift and he steps away from her, insisting to himself for a moment that the movement is not in discomfort and then correcting himself, fumbling to embrace and control the feeling. He prickles. She was right when she told Mal he prickled. Sand and sex. She imagines sex with him – tries to imagine his strangeness translated into a body and a force, imagines if he would move or lie still, if his fingers would grip. She wonders, then, if her strangeness is the same. Then imagines dancing in the turbolift, after Pavel stopped pretending not to look at her and gazed openly, and she thinks, _I have a body._

They’re off the turbolift and the sickbay isn’t far around corners and corners. Simon had thought about the doctor, even talked about him out loud a little. Simon forgets that she knows before he says anything, but she likes to see what he’ll tell her. “He seemed unfriendly at first,” Simon had said. “Terrible bedside manner. But I suppose, when you know someone well enough, the reassurances are assumed…” He was thinking of the brusque way he used to innock Wash. And he’d faltered.

The doctor’s mind is soft, soft. Not without strength or gruffness, but careful and worried. “Mister Spock,” the doctor says, surprised. “Is something the matter with the away team?”

“Not that I am aware of, Doctor,” Spock answers, and River almost laughs. Their eyes settle on her. “I found Miss Tam… in a state of some distress, in the corridor. I requested she accompany me to sickbay.”

“You seem fine enough, girl,” the doctor says, which Simon would never, ever say. She looks at him quizzically. “Your brother didn’t tell me anything particular I could do for you. Do you take dopamine? Benzodiazapine, some ancient shit like that? Pardon my French.”

“Vous êtes pardonné,” she says. “My ancient shit is a more complex compound than those. There’s a selective 5-HT1A receptor partial agonist. Our cocktail is C19H29N5O2. Gepirone. On the rocks. But sometimes we modify it with a corticosteroid. Any one should do.” She looks at the doctor, reaches out a hand for his padd. He’s written down the chemical complex wrong. She corrects it and hands it back to him. “This is for future reference,” she tells him as he takes it back. “Only if you like to play.”

He looks up at her. “I can play, all right, Miss Tam,” he says gruffly. “This will take me a while to figure out. The bonding seems complex. But you’re welcome to rest here, if you’d like.” He knows she won’t. He’s silently berating Spock in advance, begging him not to protest when she refuses. He’s too late, though. The man in the hallway is thinking a countdown, and in his mind she can see the planet below, Captain James Kirk’s face, fire, no diplomacy at all.

 

 

**Translations from the last two chapters:**

run-tse duh fwotzoo – merciful buddha  
yu bun duh tzao gao – stupid shit  
go-se – crap  
dahng ran – of course  
Du bu qi, wo bu xi huan – I’m sorry, I don’t like –  


**Author's Note:**

> (Posted on LJ comms; I haven't written a new chapter in years, but I definitely still want to, so maybe reposting is the incentive I need.)


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